All I Want For Christmas
by latbfan
Summary: Oliver finds exactly what he wants under his tree on Christmas morning. A little fluffy holiday one-shot that turned into a place to put established Olicity sweet-nothings and How Was Your Day outtakes.
1. All I Want For Christmas

_A/N: Apologies for a super-long note, but here it is, gentle readers: the final installment of the Holiday Trifecta of Smuttiness dared/encouraged/demanded between JWAB, CreepingMuse and myself. __My brain can only handle so many AUs, so this scene takes place after some off-script musings found in my Ghosts series of chapters in my on-going in-canon fic, "How Was Your Day?" But not to worry if you haven't read it: all you need to know is that Oliver just accidentally spent the night at Felicity's (they slept together, but not like that) and she accompanied him to a Christmas Eve gala. _

_If you're not watching Sleepy Hallow, you're not only missing out on what's arguably the best new show on television, but also some fantastically-rendered fics. JWAB's Conversations with Photographs and Point of No Return and CreepingMuse's She and He and Au Naturel are worth marathoning the show just so they make sense. You should do that for yourself as a Christmas present. Right now. Go. *nods encouragingly*_

_I hope everyone has a wonderful week celebrating (or not): Merry Happy Greetings and Good Cheer! And enjoy!_

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All I Want For Christmas

"Oliver," Felicity squeals in mock-protest when my fingers unbutton one of the three askew buttons of my tuxedo shirt she slipped on before we both nodded off to sleep a few hours ago. "What are you doing?"

"Opening my present," I whisper against her silken skin. Her giggles turn into contented moans as I lick and kiss the triangle of exposed flesh, nosing my shirt out of my way so I have unfettered access to rosy nipples.

"Don't stop what you're doing," she commands, already adorably out of breath. "But just so you know, I object on principle to the implication that I'm a commodity. We will discuss this." She arches her back, pressing her breast further into my mouth and wriggles her hips against me. "Later."

We're laying under the Christmas tree, our clothes from last night's gala sprinkled around my room like torn wrapping paper, her red gown hanging precariously off the side of my still-made bed. We never made it that far when we kissed our way up the stairs and into my room.

I've never been so grateful for giving Digg the night off because I'm certain, had he been driving, Felicity would've gone home. Instead, I barely had the car stopped by the front door before we were both out. Felicity lost her footing in the snow, but I caught her before she fell, sweeping her off her feet and carrying her into the house like a caveman. We stood in entryway, pressed against the front door. She moaned into my mouth, her hands frantic and lost in my jacket sleeves as she unhooked my belt and struggled with my zipper while my fingers teased her through layers of red silk.

"Oliver... Yes... There... Oh... Yes... Please, Oliver."

I was afraid I'd come right there in my pants like a teenaged boy, or not control myself and take her, still dressed and standing up against the wall where anyone could walk by and see us. Not like that. Not the first time. So I maneuvered us up the stairs, all kisses and fingers and tongues and quiet groans and pleas for more. Always more.

When we were safely in my room with the door shut and locked, I held her shoes in one hand and pressed her against me with the other, desperately tasting her tongue as her trembling fingers worked to undo my bow tie and the buttons beneath it.

I didn't expect this. I didn't dare to even dream it. But I can't honestly say I haven't wanted it, haven't desired this, her, for so long I've forgotten what it's like to breathe without feeling the hunger for her in my chest. When I woke up in her bed yesterday morning, I thought I'd made a terrible mistake and was going to drive her away. Instead, I find myself here on Christmas morning, under the tree unwrapping all I'll ever want.

She looked incredible last night in that red dress, the provocative color such a contrast to the elegantly demure style. I'd stalked her during the gala, always keeping a line of sight between us, catching distracting glimpses of her bare arms, the delicate curve of her spine, the tease of red heels peeking out beneath her long shirt when she walked. It was the sight of her laughing with someone else, her hand reaching out and resting on another man's forearm, that drove me from the party to the cold solitude of the roof.

That's when I looked up at the snowy night sky. With the lights of Starling City glittering below, the snow fell like it was part of a Christmas movie, huge, wet flakes that seemed to drop from the impossible blackness of the sky like white cornflakes.

I reached for my phone to call her up to join me because this was too beautiful to not share, but I stopped myself. She's not mine, I reminded myself. It wasn't fair for me to act like she was. This isn't a movie, it's my life, and I'm not a nice person who should get what he wants just because it's Christmas.

I was laying on the roof, my head at the very edge, feeling rather melancholic and watching the snow, when I heard her call for me from the access door.

"Oliver? Are you really going to make me come out and fetch you?"

"Come see this!"

"Oliver," she grumbled, carefully picking her way across the slick, uneven surface. "My heels are too high for this sort of adventure."

"It's worth it," I promised her, unable to contain my excitement that she was there like a Christmas wish come true.

"Mr. Queen," she scolded, standing over me with an expression that was half-grin and half-scowl. "Your absence has become conspicuous, and you want me to come see something on the roof?"

She was shivering, huddled into herself with chattering teeth. I sprang to my feet, the movement so sudden and so close to the roof's edge that she squeaked and instinctively reached out and grabbed my lapels.

"Don't do that!" she said, peering cautiously over the edge of the roof. "It's slippery."

"I'm wearing more sensible shoes," I pointed out. "And all grabbing me would've done is pull you over with me."

"Then we'd splat together, I guess. Not my idea of a good time."

"You're freezing." I rubbed my hands along her bare arms, which were covered in goosebumps.

"So are your hands," she said with a shiver.

"Here." I shrugged out of my jackets and wrap it around her shoulders. She snuggled into, unconsciously turning her head so she could smell the collar.

"I want you to see something."

"Do I have to lay down?" She gestured to her red gown. "It's new, and it wasn't on sale."

I smiled at the implication, that she'd maybe bought the dress special for tonight. For me. And when I turned, her laugh rang out in the quiet night. I peered over my shoulder to where she was childishly pointing, my butt wet from laying in the snow. I grinned and winked before flopping back down and once again inching my way to the very edge of the roof. I looked up at her and patted the space next to me.

"Oliver, you are incorrigible." But she eased down onto the wet asphalt anyway, cringing when she sat. "My dress," she whimpered.

"Close your eyes," I said. "Don't look until you're at the edge." I shifted to help her get into place and realized she was stealing a peek through her long lashes. "No peeking!"

Busted, she dutifully and dramatically closed her eyes and trusted me to position her. I leaned over, so close I could feel her flyaway hairs tickling my neck, to make sure she was where I wanted her to be when she opened her eyes. I settled in next to her, not able to stop myself from making sure our arms touched.

"Now."

When she opened her eyes, she gasped and raised her hands to her mouth.

"Beautiful," I whispered, watching her reaction rather than the snow that caused it. Before I could stop myself, I reached over for one of her hands, lost in my too-long jacket sleeves. I found her fingers and kissed each beautiful one.

"Oliver," she said, but she wasn't saying no.

She said my name like a kind of promise, her voice was as breathy and desperate as I felt. Before either one of us could voice objections or all the reasons why not, I leaned over and kissed her. I left my eyes open, and she had snowflakes trapped in her eyelashes, and I watched as they slowly melt.

"Let's go," she murmured against my lips, even as she sucked the bottom one into her mouth.

Once we were in my room, I dropped her shoes to the floor with a quiet thud and slid my jacket off her shoulders. She pulled my tie free and flung it aside as she struggled to unbutton my shirt one with one hand and finish opening my pants with the other. Frustrated, I leaned down and gathered up her long skirt, my hand discovering nothing but skin beneath it. I groaned as I buried my fingers in her wet heat.

"Felicity," I moaned into her ear, my other hand desperately searching for the zipper.

"I forgot to pack fancy undergarments," she said, her breath hot and wet against my neck. "I was kind of distracted this morning."

"Thank God." I managed to unzip her dress, tearing the layer of tiny hooks at the top. "I'll buy you a new one," I promised as the heavy fabric slid down to a puddle on the floor. I reached for the ruined dress and stopped kissing her just long enough to toss it out of the way.

Gloriously naked before me, I gently tugged the pins from her hair and dropped them to the floor, before I crushed her to me, pulling her leg up to my hip. Only I'd forgotten I was still wearing pants. Off-balance because they were trapped down by my ankles, we fell to the floor, Felicity laughing as she landed on top of me underneath the Christmas tree.

"Smooth, Mr. Queen," she teased. "Very smooth."

"You're one to talk," I said, running my hands along the bare expanse of her back, cupping her bottom as she swirled her hips against mine.

Not wanting to stop kissing her, I awkwardly kicked my shoes across the room. One hit the wall and the other crashed into something by the desk. I flipped us so she was beneath me, her body trapped between my thighs. The twinkling lights on the tree bathed her in multi-colored halos as she nipped at my nipple and pinched the other while I wiggled until I'd freed myself from my pants.

It was too good to last. At least that first time. I was still wearing my open shirt when she reached between us and touched me, her hand strong and demanding as she grasped me firmly and guided me into place. I never wanted anything as much as I wanted to feel her, all of her, but still I hesitated, afraid of what this meant, or would mean. Terrified that she would regret this tomorrow or that it wouldn't mean everything I needed it to mean to her.

"Oliver," she moaned. "Please."

That was all it took to persuade me. Consequences be damned, I crushed her against me because I never wanted to let her go. She buried her face in my neck, her teeth biting the sensitive skin where my shoulders met, her nails digging into my back and scratching at my scalp.

I wanted that moment to last forever, but it was too much, too intense. She came quickly, her thighs gripping my hips as her wet heat clenched around me, making me come too. We clung to each other, a sweaty mess of tangled limbs and gasping breaths.

"Well," I finally managed to say, gently smoothing her hair out of her face. "That was a little embarrassing."

"Not that I'm some kind of expert, but I think it's safe to say you are not little," she replied with a grin. "But you do have quite the Casanova reputation to live up to. I think I'm going to need more evidence to consider before I decide whether or not you've earned it."

"I think I'm up to the challenge," I said, tracing the delicate curve of her ear with my tongue while I gently thrust against her.

"That much is definitely true."

My shirt eventually ended up in heap on the floor, which is where Felicity found it and pulled her arms through the sleeves just as the sun was beginning to rise. She sleepily fumbled with the buttons, buttoning just enough so it didn't fall off as I spooned her against my chest. But before she did, I licked and touched and teased every inch of her. I tasted her eyelids and the skin between her toes and the ticklish spot behind her knees and the salty perfection of her most secret places. I laid unmoving while her tongue explored my scars and traced the lines of my abs and dropped kisses along my hips and her hot mouth slurped and sucked and swallowed.

We made each other cry out and moan and laugh and whimper and groan and beg and promise before dropping off into exhausted sleep.

"You'll have to tell me the best way to sneak out of this place," she quietly says after we've both caught our breath again as we continue to lay on the floor and look up through the decorated tree.

"I never snuck out."

"Of course you did," she says. "Before? When you were in high school?"

"Nope." I shake my head. "I just waltzed out the front door like the cocky bastard I was."

"Was? As in past tense?"

"Touche. Why? You going somewhere?" I pull her to me and kiss her neck. "I was thinking we should move to the bed at some point," I say. "It's a very comfortable bed. I think you're going to like it. But that doesn't require leaving this room."

"Your family will want to spend Christmas with you."

I shrug and walk my fingers up underneath my shirt to find her silken thighs, afraid of what I think she's saying. "They can wait. I'm otherwise engaged at the moment. And I plan to be thusly occupied for some time."

"Thusly?" she teases.

"Yes, thusly. Besides, you're not getting out of Christmas with my family. It's going to be you and me and mom and Thea and Roy, the most painfully awkward Christmas ever. We're going smile and suffer all the unasked questions and looks until I can take you home and we can continue this at your place."

"Oliver, I only have a ruined formal gown to wear. And I flicked my contacts out of my eyes at some point, so I can't even see."

"You keep your glasses in your evening bag when you wear contacts," I remind her.

"You noticed," she huffs.

"I noticed. Besides, I'll get something of Thea's for you to wear. Or there's always my tuxedo shirt. It looks really good on you." I lean down and kiss her thigh where the shirt stops.

"I don't think your mom likes me. And I don't actually celebrate Christmas anyway, and I wasn't planning on being here, so I don't have presents for anyone."

"In case you haven't noticed," I say, trying to keep my voice light. "We're rich and buy whatever we want."

"And my gosh, what a cliché! You with your secretary!"

"Felicity." I lean on my elbow so I can see her, my thumb gently stroking her cheek. "We both know, despite your official job description, that you're not my secretary." I have to know the truth, no matter how much it will hurt. "Are you embarrassed of me?"

"No!"

"Then...?" My voice trails off because I don't even know how to ask what can possibly be wrong.

"I just don't want you to feel obligated, is all."

"Obligated?" I quietly ask.

She reaches up and rests her hand on my cheek. "Oliver, you know I wouldn't hold this against you. I mean, I understand that sometimes things happen, and maybe they mean different things to different people. I still want to work with you and..."

"What are you talking about?" I interrupt. "Felicity, what do you think happened last night? And the night before that?"

"I think," she says, very slowly, like she's talking to a child. "That you've had a very stressful time lately and I'm..." She takes a deep breath. "I think I'm safe. And I don't want you to feel like you owe me any explanations or..."

Before she can say anything else to ruin the best Christmas ever, I lean down and kiss her. I start out softly, just to make her stop talking, but it quickly escalates, her hands moving from my hips further down, my fingers undoing the final button on my shirt.

"You are all I want," I fiercely whisper, desperate for her to understand how much she means to me. "You are all I'll ever want. Today, tomorrow. Always."

She beams. "Well. Okay then."

"Okay," I agree.

"So it's a really comfortable bed?"

"Come see for yourself."


	2. In With the New

_A/N: So I really meant for this to be a Christmas one-shot, but in honor of my dramatic and sassy new 'do (I'm donating 14" of ponytail I just chopped off this afternoon – well, obviously I didn't personally cut it off) and my gutter-dwelling mind, I decided to leave this fic open as a home for smutty "How Was Your Day" outtakes when the... *clears throat* ...spirit moves me. This is a Felicity POV following their Christmas Eve cliché. Happy 2014, gentle readers! Who's looking forward to seeing The Abs again soon?_

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In With the New

"Oliver!" I shout across the lair from my computers. "We really can't be late. You will face the wrath of Thea if you miss her New Year's toast."

I scowl and lean forward, closer to the screens. Crap crap crap. I had every intention of coming back and checking on these Christmas morning. I hadn't intended to find myself being unwrapped under Oliver's tree. And then in his bed. And then sitting through an admittedly delicious if awkward lunch with his mother wearing a pair of borrowed leggings and one of Oliver's button-downs with the sleeves rolled up because he said he loved the way his clothes look on me. And then he unwrapped me again at my apartment. The first time was in his car before we even left his house. And then against my door that we hadn't even taken the time to lock yet. Over and over, in ways I didn't know were possible, he unwrapped me.

We didn't leave my apartment, ordering take-out when I ran out of food and dodging Digg's irritated texts. Not until tonight, and only because Thea threatened to move the party to my apartment if Oliver didn't show up at the club. He swore she was bluffing, but I wasn't willing to risk it. Besides, I already had another new dress for the swanky bash. Tiny and sparkling and magnificently blue, it seemed like just the thing for Thea's New Year's Eve party.

"Oliver! When Thea's done with you, then I'll have to face her."

"Mmmm," he hums into the sensitive skin behind my ear, making me jump and squeak and shiver and pant all at the same time. Between the bass thumping from the party already in full swing at Verdant and Oliver's ability to move silently, even when wearing dress shoes, I hadn't heard him until he wanted me to. "You could kick her ass."

"You're a bad influence, Mr. Queen," I scold, but I'm already rubbing against him as he steps behind me, wrapping his arms around mine and sliding me between his thighs.

I've seen them in all their glory, those powerful legs with their well-defined muscles. I've admired them while the sunrise burnished the scant hair and made it glow almost auburn. I've basked between them in the slippery warmth of a bath. I've lain awake and watched him while he slept, wearing only moonlight and shadows. I've run my fingers along their lengths. I've dug into them with my heels while pressed against the wall. I've been sprawled in bed with his legs laying heavy and limp on top of me. I've licked and tasted the soft skin beneath his knees and the silken path of his inner thighs.

Oh yes. It's only been a few days, but I know Oliver's thighs, and there should be a law against them not touching me.

"Firstly, I'm not beating up your sister. Secondly, these searches needed updating days ago." I try to concentrate as I sort through all the data, deciding what can be dumped now and what needs to be looked at more closely when I'm not distracted. "I'm neglecting our work."

"I thought you said I should practice more yoga." He ghosts his fingers across my bare back and down my arms, leaving goosebumps in his wake. "But I think it's working better now. I'm feeling very relaxed."

He carefully bites into my earlobe and tugs on the silver stud with his tongue, which seems to have a direct line to... other parts that aren't ears. I'm thinking about how delightful his tongue on studs would be if I had other things pierced when he thrusts gently against me, pressing what is quite possibly the most impressively beautiful part of Oliver Queen into my back.

"The Horny Dog is not a yoga position I'm familiar with."

My fingers fly over the keyboard. I need to do this. Just need to get this done, and then I can turn around and wrap my arms around him and feel him right where I'm already wet just at the thought of...

Dammit! Focus. One of us has to focus.

"Oh really?" he murmurs, his fingers moving across my hips down to the short hem of my evening dress. "It's a very well-known position. Quite ancient. Not to mention one of my favorites." His fingers tease my bare leg right below my dress.

"Oliver." His name comes from somewhere deep inside me. It sounds like a whispered plea. For more, always more. To never stop touching me.

He nuzzles into my neck and slips his hand under my dress, understanding exactly what I want and what I most need and how desperate I am to feel him. He clicks his tongue in disapproval when his fingers discover the lacy bit of lace that technically counts as panties.

"What is this, Ms. Smoak?" he chastises as a single finger teases through the sheer fabric. "I thought you went commando underneath your formal wear."

"This isn't formal." I give up trying to work and close my eyes, leaning my head back against him. My hands drop to my sides and reach around to explore the wonder that is Oliver's butt in Armani slacks. "And I wasn't kidding when I said I forgot to pack underwear on Christmas Eve."

"Lucky me," he whispers. "I love that you're an accidental bad-ass."

"Your ass is bad enough for both of us," I assure him, dragging my fingernails along the part in question. "And by bad, of course, I mean gloriously and inhumanly sexy." I pinch it hard enough that he hisses in my ear. "I used to think I might break my teeth if I were to bite it."

"You've proven that wrong," he says.

"Yes, but I may need to conduct further testing to be satisfied I've disproved that..."

His finger moves beneath my panties, and I forget what I was talking about.

"Finish your search," he commands while he gently pinches my clit.

"What?" My eyes fly open and I turn my head to see him.

He nods towards the computer as a second finger joins the first. "We have exactly eight minutes. Six for you to finish, and two to give us enough time to get upstairs for Thea's toast."

"Oliver," I protest.

"Clock's ticking. Consider this training."

I take a deep breath and once again attempt to focus on the computer screens in front of me, rather than Oliver pressed against me and his very skilled fingers doing their best to distract me.

"I thought I trained with Digg."

"Not like this, you don't," he growls.

"And what possible scenario am I training for?"

Oliver shrugs and dips his tongue into my ear. "Does it really matter? Five minutes."

I've never typed so fast in my life. The bass thumps to the beat of my heart, and all my blood rushes away from my brain, and Oliver's deliciously hard as he presses against my back. His lips pepper soft kisses along my neck and ears, and his face is so smooth, I know he must've used the straight razor tonight.

"Done!" I exclaim. "Two minutes to spare."

"Oh, you're not done."

He tugs my hips towards him and presses his hand against my back, leaning me over the keyboard. I can hear the clink of his belt and never has there been a sexier sound than the metalic teeth of Oliver's zipper pulling down. His fingers pull my panties to one side, and he fills me with a single stroke, the force pushing me into the computers.

Oliver can be surprisingly tender. There are times he look at me with childlike wonder and amazement that I didn't realize he possessed, and I imagine it's something precious, something he had to lock away deep inside him to survive the way he did. I love that it's finding its way back, only not in the arrogant, selfish boy he once was, but in the wizened man he's become. He kisses sometimes like the world has stopped turning and time is standing still and waiting for him to finish.

This is not one of those times. Nope. This is fucking. Hard, deep fucking, in the best possible sense of the word.

Like all the rest of him, Oliver Queen the lover is full of contradiction and contrast. And the demanding beefcake commanding from behind me is just as sexy as the gentle admirer who perfectly painted my toenails this morning while laying naked in my bed.

My face is pressed into the screen, the keyboard digging painfully into my chest, my legs too far apart to comfortably balance on stilettos. But between his teeth at my ear and his fingers on my clit and the hard length of him hitting all the right places inside, I really don't care. I don't care about the party or Thea's toast or the searches. To hell with the world right now. I don't care about anything except him.

Oliver.

As always, my orgasm hastens his, and he cries out as he spasms inside me, his limp weight heavy against my back.

"God," he gasps. "Felicity."

Despite the ferocity of the previous few minutes, he's gentle once more as he kisses my shoulder blades and uses his silk handkerchief to tidy me up before pulling away and putting himself back together.

"It's a good thing I did have to foresight to remember panties this time," I say. When he raises an eyebrow, I gesture to the short dress. "Dripping is gross."

He throws back his head and laughs, the sound pure abandon and joy, and he pulls me into another kiss. He's doing up his belt and I'm straightening his tie when Digg walks down the stairs. From the way he's pointedly not looking at us, there's no doubt that this is his second trip into the lair in the past few minutes.

"We're coming," Oliver says, not turning around. Instead, he smiles at me, that one-sided grin I love so much, and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my hair.

"Obviously," Digg grumbles good-naturedly.

"Happy New Year!" I know I'm blushing, but I step around Oliver throw my arms around Digg away. "Sorry," I whisper in the ear furthest away from Oliver. "We'll... work on that."

Digg squeezes me and kisses my forehead. "I hope it's a good year," he says.

"It's already off to a great start," Oliver says, thumping Digg on the shoulder.

"The best," Digg agrees, winking at me.

"The best," Oliver echoes, tucking me into his side. "Shall we? The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave."


	3. Complexity of Aromas

_A/N: Okay, so this is because anthfan wrote a really sad (and perfectly believable) account of the promised bottle of 1982 __Lafite-Rothschild and I just couldn't leave it like that. Thus, here we are: __non-angsty Oliver is ponying up even though he was lying (badly) when he offered it to her in S1. Also, there are references to my in-canon fic, "How Was Your Day," but it's not essential that you've read it. I hope you enjoy this trifling little sip._

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Complexity of Aromas

Bath oil I found under the sink that smells subtly of jasmine. The last two candles in her apartment, tiny votives that won't survive the bottle of wine. The last of her clean towels. If I didn't think Felicity would take it as an insult, I'd ask Raisa to come over while we're at work because I know the mess is driving her insane, but I'm keeping her otherwise engaged. But everything's ready. Except her. And glasses. We need glasses.

"Felicity," I say over the sound of the running water filling the tub. So help me, I know she's perched on the edge of the ruined bed with her damned tablet. I hate that thing. "Glasses please?"

"So impatient," she teases when she finally joins me in her small bathroom. "What's the rush? You going to squeeze in a bath before you leave me to go and save the world or something?"

"Not tonight," I promise, unable to stop myself from pulling her towards me. I will never get tired of kissing her. "Tonight," I say, my lips resting against hers. "I'm paying my debts."

"Debts?" She pulls back and raises an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"

"I like to think, despite the fact that my entire life is a lie, that I'm a man of honor." I tug the tie on her robe and graze her bared skin with my fingertips.

"Well, not your entire life," she counters.

"Are you ever going to take it easy on me?" I demand, leaning in to kiss her.

"You don't want me to."

She's radiant as she beams at me, knowing full well she's telling the truth. No one else takes the piss out of me like she does, especially not when she and Digg team up against me, and I love her for it.

"Still, promises were made. And I intend to deliver."

I reach behind me for the bottle and hold it out with a flourish. She squints in the flickering light before rolling her eyes.

"I'm sure I'm going to be impressed, what with your wine cellar in the basement of your mansion and all, but it's dark and I don't have my glasses."

"The 1982 Lafite-Rothschild."

She reaches around me and turns off the bath water.

"Oliver, I'm not drinking a $2,000 bottle of wine in my bathtub."

"Would you prefer to drink it in bed?" I rumble into her ear.

"It's $2,000."

"So?"

"So," she says, stiffening in my arms. "That's more than most people in Starling City make in a month."

"I'm not most people."

"But I am."

"Felicity," I say, cupping her cheek in my hand so she'll look at me.

I don't understand why she's arguing with me about something so small as a bottle of wine. Why doesn't she see what she does to me? What no one else can do? She is all I will ever want and more than I will ever deserve.

"You said you love red wine."

"I do."

And I love you, I want to tell her. This bottle of wine is nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the perfection that is you. I would fill the bathtub with bottles of this wine if it would make you happy.

Only I don't say that. Instead I press forward until I feel her breath warm against my lips. I linger there, so close but denying myself what I want most, savoring the knowledge that somehow, miraculously, this incredible woman has invited me into her home. Into her bath. Into her life. I frame her face with my hands and kiss into her all the things I want to say but won't. Can't. I let my lips show her the truth of my heart in ways my words would fail.

I can tell the moment she surrenders, her body once again relaxing against mine as she reaches up and tugs my hair to pull me closer. Her lips dance against mine, her tongue teasing me with its wet warmth.

"It's already open," I whisper into her ear, sending shivers through her body. "You brought glasses?"

"Pocket," she murmurs as she leans over to suck one of my nipples into her mouth. I hiss when she bites and reach into the pockets of her robe only to find plastic rather than glass.

"Glasses, Felicity," I groan. "These are not glasses."

"These are bathtub glasses. We've had this discussion before. I'm not risking it."

"There are no wild cats," I assure her. "And I won't let you die, so the nonexistent wild cats won't eat off your face."

"Snob." She unceremoniously drops her robe to the floor, the candlelight flickering momentarily on her skin before she settles into the tub. "Mmmm," she sighs leaning her head back and stretching out. "Perfect. Well, almost. You naked in here too would make it perfect."

"We're really going to drink this wine out of these glasses?" I hold up one of the offensive things that looks like a wineglass but is most certainly not wineglass, but she doesn't even open her eyes. She just grins and nods.

"If you insist on proper glassware, you will find some in the kitchen. Although, full-disclosure: they're clearance wineglasses from Target. The plastic ones cost more and are arguably more fancy."

I shake my head and pour the wine into the damned plastic cups before settling into the tub behind her, pillowing her head on my chest and wrapping my legs around hers so we both fit. The water laps dangerously close to the top when I reach down for the cups and hand her one.

"You win," I say. "You always win."

"To confident women who refuse to be corrupted by opulence," she says, gently touching her glass to mine. The sound, rather than the satisfying melody of crystal, is a muted clunk.

"Cheers," I agree.

I watch from over her shoulder as she delicately sniffs before sipping. She holds the wine in her mouth and cocks her head, considering it, before swallowing.

"Well?" I ask.

She takes another sip, her tongue catching an errant drop from her bottom lip.

"The suspense is killing me."

"It's good," she says.

"Of course it's 'good.' This is, quite possibly, the best red wine in the world."

I'm swallowing my first sip when she says, "It's amazing, actually, but, like most things, it's not worth the hype or the price tag."

"What?" I choke.

"Oh, it's incredible," she hastily adds, taking another swallow to prove it. "The bouquet is especially delightful, and the taste." She takes another sip and holds it in her mouth. "It reminds me of you, actually."

"Overrated?"

"I would splash you, but I'm not risking ruining this," she warns, flicking my foot with her toe. "I mean it's layered and smoky and lingers in my mouth, but it's sweet, too. Not too sweet. Just right. It's bold and makes a statement, but it's silky too. Soft. It tastes..." I hold my breath and wait for her to finish. "It tastes infinitely complex and vibrant. It tastes alive."

"Alive?"

"Yes," she maintains. "Alive." She leans over and kisses my arm. "Miraculously and deliciously alive," she whispers.

"Felicity."

"And I thank you, Mr. Queen," she says. "For fulfilling your promises, however lamely they were made. You are indeed a man of your word. But next time we're soaking in your bathtub, I'm going to knock your socks off with one of my personal favorites, and it's only $20 a bottle. Which means we can drink enough to kill ourselves and still not come close to what you spent on this."

"I don't usually wear socks in the bath," I tease, reaching for her glass and setting it aside.

She turns and gives me a devilish grin. "Then I suppose I'll have to use my imagination and knock something else."

"I love your imagination," I tell her, reaching once more to kiss her, my tongue savoring the lingering taste of the wine on her lips.


	4. A Different Kind of Coffee Break

_A/N: Because for... reasons... I'm enjoying (even more than usual) playing with pretty, imaginary friends, and because Felicity wants to continue her Odes to Oliver's Parts. For all my readers hunkered down up north (in the US) be safe and stay warm!_

* * *

A Different Kind of Coffee Break

I'm alone in my bed when I wake up, something that doesn't happen much anymore since Oliver's unofficially moved in. It's that strange time that's too late to be called night but much too early to be considered morning, those couple of hours in each day I've come to cherish because they feels like ours. No work, no mission, no interruptions. This hour or two exists in a world that's just for us.

The candles have burned out, so my room is lit only by the street lights shining in through gauzy curtains. I roll over in bed and bury my nose in Oliver's pillow. It's still warm and smells like his soap, their plain cardboard boxes neatly stacked in the bathroom next to my extra shampoo.

It didn't take long for Oliver's luxurious presence to permeate my little apartment. I tried to be insulted, or at the very least righteously indignant, when he not-so-subtly replaced all my towels, only I didn't know such plush fluffiness existed. Until the new bedding arrived not long after, that is. He left my double bed frame that's really too small for both of us because he says he sleeps better when my back is spooned against his chest, and I would be some kind of idiot to argue with that logic. And he still prefers my old blue afghan when we curl up on my sagging couch to watch tv, the one I used to cover him the first night he slept over. But he insisted on the new mattress and pillows and sheets. Knowing he spent five long years away from the simple comforts of a good bed, I couldn't argue with him about that either.

We've never talked about why he wants to stay here when he has a mansion full of servants waiting for him across town and my whole apartment would comfortably fit into his bathroom and closet with square footage to spare. But I understand. Like this strange pre-dawn time that belongs to only us, my apartment is one of the two places he can actually be himself. Just Oliver. He isn't haunted by ghosts here. He doesn't have to lie or pretend anything other than what he really feels and who he truly is. And even though it's too early to be awake, I know he slept well, better than he used to at home, where he spent most nights pacing in his room. I know because I'm sometimes a creepy stalker, and I watched him for a little while before I nodded off. I can't help myself when he sleeps, his face relaxed and innocent, his lips almost pouty as even breaths make their leisurely way in and out.

The quiet whine of the coffee grinder pulls me from bed. I put on my glasses and pocket my tablet in my robe while I shuffle to the kitchen. Oliver hasn't turned on any lights and is just coming out of the pantry with the coffee grinder.

"Decided to come out of the closet at last?" I tease, twisting the dimmer switch so the lights under the cabinets softly glow. Wearing only sleep pants that hang low on his hips, Oliver jumps, clutching the grinder to his bare chest.

"Jesus."

"No, Felicity." He chuckles and shakes his head, even as I kiss him before reaching for the french press. It's ridiculous, but I even love Oliver's morning breath. I hand it over before opening the cupboard, scowling when I realize I'm out of clean mugs. "You, mister, are seriously cutting into my cleaning time. I've become quite untidy."

"I would apologize," he says as he dips to steal another kiss. "Except I'm not sorry."

"I assumed as much," I say. "You are the most unapologetic person I've ever known. But then again, pots and kettles and all." I lean in and whisper conspiratorially: "I can't say I'm sorry either." I hand him the whistling tea kettle and watch as he warms up the press and plunger before adding the coffee and the rest of the water.

"You aren't ruining my first cup of coffee by distracting me again," he warns. Despite the rumbly gruffness of his tone, he turns and wraps his arms around me. "Your boss is something of a grump before his coffee."

"Really?" I mockingly ask. "I hadn't noticed."

"Is that a tablet in your pocket?" he asks as he noses my hair out of his way. "Or are you happy to see me?"

I pull it from my pocket and set it on the counter, quickly swiping to the timer. "Exactly four minutes. Not a second more."

"Except I have to wash mugs if I want my coffee because you live in filthy squalor," he murmurs, dipping the tip of his tongue into my ear.

"You'd better hurry, then," I tell him.

When he turns to the sink and runs the hot water, I playfully swat his butt before pressing against his back, savoring the warm expanse of bare skin as it seeps through my thin camisole. Like the rest of him, his back is beautifully chiseled with muscles and covered with scars. I drag my fingernails from his broad shoulders down to his waist, lingering on the sculpted definition of his hips. I trace my fingertips over the old wounds on his right shoulder, the raised lines rougher but no less gorgeous than the rest of his skin. Ghosting down, I touch more, my fingers knowing right where they are and exactly what they feel like, their unique patterns as familiar to me as a keyboard.

Some are obviously deep cuts that should've been stitched and weren't. Some are unmistakably burns. These ones, the ones I trace with my fingertips, although I've never asked, can only be from a whipping, some savage and cruel punishment at the hands of an unknown sadist that opened his back, probably down to the bone.

They used to make me sad and uncomfortable, Oliver's scars. When I saw them, which was inevitable because I always watch him workout, I perceived each one as lingering proof that he's suffered so much. Too much. More than someone should ever have to suffer and live to remember. They reminded me of the hurt he must still feel, the wounds that hide beneath his carefully constructed surface but are no less painful and even less healed.

But now that I've kissed each and every one, now that I've licked and laved and memorized and studied each beautiful scar, I understand. He is not, as he sometimes insists in his darker moods, ruined. He, they, are beautiful. Precious, even. Every scar exists because of a fight he didn't lose. Each one is a terrible, lonely death he didn't die. Every single mark on his breathtakingly beautiful body is its own odyssey that brought him closer to home.

I love them. I'm not worthy, but I do. I love them. I'm grateful to them. I worship them because I can. Because he's alive.

I rest my cheek against his dragon tattoo, feeling the powerful thump of his heart. It, too, is perfect because he has a dragon sleeping within him, coiled, ready and willing to spring into action, and there are times it would be easier for him to let that beast rage and roar and mindlessly destroy everything, even himself. But he's tamed it. Bent it and shaped it and controlled it to work his will. For now, and more and more everyday, it sleeps. So Oliver, too, can finally rest.

He reaches for the bottle of Dawn and his spine flexes beneath me. Like a peacock fanning his plumage, its impossible to ignore the symmetrical perfection that is Oliver's back. More unassuming than his impressive abs, it's the unseen pillar of strength that keeps him going. That brings him home to me at night.

Standing on tiptoes, I start at the nape of his neck, the short hair softly scratching my lips. I kiss and lick my way down the deceptively delicate string of bones, saying good morning and thank you to each vertebrae as I go. I detour to nibble one delectable shoulder blade, and then the other, before returning to my task.

I bend down to reach more, determined not to miss a single one, and fall to my knees to linger at the sweet spot at the small of his back, right above his pajama pants.

"Felicity," Oliver gasps. His sudsy fists grip the edge of my sink, the coffee mugs forgotten in the water.

"Hmm?" I hum in reply, his skin vibrating against my lips.

At that moment, the timer goes off, and Oliver slaps my tablet with a soapy hand before turning to me. His hands are wet in my hair as he tries to pull me up towards him. He wants kisses, but I stay right where I am, making myself comfortable on the floor as I untie the drawstring that keeps me from my prize.

"Your coffee?" I breathe against his impressively hard length.

"What coffee?"


	5. Rubber and Glue - Part One

_A/N: The fall-out from the "get your head out of your ass" conversation from Oliver's POV if he and Felicity were actually together as I've imagined them in this story, rather than just marinating in sexual tension so thick you can scoop it with your bare fingers. I hope you enjoy._

* * *

Rubber and Glue - Part One

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I don't say it out loud, but I think it in my head. The hard, angry sound over and over. It's the soundtrack that's playing to the pounding beat of my heart.

Fuck.

I snapped at her.

Fuck.

I blamed her.

Fuck.

I made her run away.

Fuck.

My muscles are on fire, and I've been inverted too long, a headache burning behind my eyes. But still I crunch and twist, forcing my body to pull itself up even though it's begging for me to rest. But if I stop now, I won't be able to get back up. And I need to do this. Because she said she needed air over an hour ago.

"You going to just let her go?" Digg had asked when the door slammed behind her.

I hadn't answered, simply stripped out of the green leather. I left it in a pile on the floor and pulled on workout pants. Fuck Digg if he didn't want to see my naked ass. He could close his eyes. This is my lair.

"She's right, you know," he said. "Your head is lodged in your ass. Do I need to kick it out for you?"

I climbed up to the bar to get away from him, from his knowing eyes and watchful gaze and judgmental vigil.

Fuck.

If she gets hurt, it'll be my fault.

Fuck.

She _is_ hurt, and it _is_ my fault.

Fuck.

I hear the door to the lair open, and even though I don't pause my brutal workout, I see her.

Thank God. She's home.

"They run out of air in Starling City?" Digg asks after she leans against the table next to him. "Have to go looking for some elsewhere?"

"Something like that."

"Better now?"

She shrugs and nods towards me.

Digg shrugs in response. "Like talking to a wall."

I hate it when they do that, hold silent conversations that are almost always about me. I hate that Digg was right when he tried to warn her away from being with me. I hate their easy intimacy that has absolutely nothing to do with me. And I fucking hate being handled, so I do one final crunch before flipping to the floor.

My lungs are begging for air, but I refuse to give into the need to gulp. I rest my hands on my hips and force myself to breathe evenly. All I want to do is curl into a ball on the floor before stretching my muscles until they can relax. Until I can relax. But I don't give myself the pleasure. I grab a bottle of water and allow myself only a little sip.

"I'm going to leave you two to it," Digg finally says in the awkward silence. "Goodnight, Felicity."

"Night, Digg," she quietly replies. I turn my back so I don't watch him leave because as much as I don't need him bearing judgmental witness, part of me is desperate for him to stay so I don't have to be alone with her rightful fury.

I am such a coward. And a dick. God, she deserves better than this.

The door closes behind him, but neither of us moves or speaks. I continue sipping the water, carefully stretching to keep from cramping. I need a towel. And a shirt. And more water. And food. And a shower. But mostly, I need her.

I need to know we're okay, but I don't know how to ask.

"So this is how we're going to fight?" she finally says to my back. "We'll play the blame-game, then I'll storm out and you'll attempt death-by-workout, and then we'll ignore each other?"

"Felicity," I whisper to the wall.

"No, really, I'd like to know if this is what I can expect when we fight. 'Cause if you're going to be pissed off and jealous over a friend in a coma you sent me to see in the first place, we're going to be fighting a lot, mister. I guess I just expected the famous Oliver Queen to be less childish about it."

"Felicity."

There's movement behind me, and suddenly my hoodie lands on my head.

"Stop acting like a jackass and put on some clothes before you hurt yourself," she says. "I bet you're super fun when you have a cold."

I immediately do as she says and pull my arms through the sleeves and zip it up. When I turn and look at her, I almost wish I hadn't because she is so angry, but also so incredibly hurt.

I did this.

I hate myself for her wet eyes and her flushed cheeks and the defensive way her arms are crossed.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here when the first bomb went off," she begins. "But I came home as soon as I heard."

"Felicity."

"Yes, you're the one who said I should go and be with Barry," she says, ignoring me. "But I should have realized you're a ridiculous caveman and didn't mean it. He's a really nice guy who saved your life and all, but this... whatever we are." She waves her hand between us. "It's new and undefined and me rushing off to the bedside of another man probably wasn't the best idea, even though he's completely alone and not a threat to you at all, because you're a selfish jerk who, despite risking his life every night saving strangers, doesn't really like people all that much."

"Hey," I begin.

"And I'm sorry," she continues, refusing to let me interrupt her. "I wasn't prepared for the bomber to scramble his signal. I should have anticipated it. He's good. He's really, really good. But I know I'm better, and I'll be ready for him next time. So if you want to blame me for something, I'll give you that one. Yeah, I messed up. But if you think for a second." She closes her eyes and shakes her head as a single angry tear weaves its way down her cheek. She wipes it away with the back of her hand before glaring at me again. "If you honestly think I would ever put you in even more danger." She stops talking again, and even though she doesn't say it, I can see her imagining me, speeding on the motorcycle, careening into the bus.

"Felicity," I say again, stepping towards her.

"No!" she says, holding up her hand to stop me. "Just. No."

"No?" I quietly repeat.

"You know what? We aren't going to be fighting like we're still in high school. Because knowing that you actually thought I did that on purpose. That you think I could ever think about anyone or anything else. That I could possibly be distracted when you're out on a mission."

She doesn't finish her sentences, and we're left staring at each other in the brightly-lit lair.

"You don't know me at all," she finally whispers.

"What are you saying?" I ask.

"Maybe we made a terrible mistake. Maybe trysts with damaged, gorgeous women is all you're capable of. And I'm neither."

Wait.

Felicity.

The sound of my own heartbeat pounds in my ears, and I feel my chest tighten as the implications of what she's saying settle beneath my ribs like a iron fist. I stare into her eyes, wanting to believe she doesn't mean it, refusing to accept what she's saying. She doesn't look away. Not Felicity. She's too brave for that, even now.

"Felicity."

I rush to close the distance between us and gather her into my arms. I hold her as tightly as I dare without crushing her. My lips are in her hair, against her forehead, tasting her tears.

"Oliver. No. Please. I just can't. We can't."

"Yes we can," I assure her, pressing her against me. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Oliver."

"It wasn't your fault." It's my turn to interrupt. I lean back just enough so I can see her eyes, and I silently beg her to believe everything I'm saying. "None of this is your fault. It was so unfair of me to blame you. I was angry because he got away. Because I can't protect you if you aren't with me, and you weren't here. You were with him. And I know he's better for you than I am, but I am selfish and I want you anyway."

I bury my face in her hair.

"Please," I whisper, not too proud to beg or ashamed of the tears in my eyes. "Please don't give up on me. On us. Please. Felicity. Stay with me."

"I'm always with you, Oliver," she says.

And then she's kissing me, her lips demanding and hungry as she digs her fingernails into my neck.

"I'm still mad at you," she groans between gasping breaths as she kicks off her shoes and I gently pull off her glasses and set them safely out of the way.

"Okay," I agree while she reaches into my pants to roughly stroke me. "I deserve that."

"You do," she moans as I yank her skirt up to her hips. "You do not get to screw your way out of trouble."

"Okay," I say again."

"This is me. Very mad."

"Yes," I shout as I thrust into her.

It isn't sweet or gentle, although I want all that tenderness later. It's mostly clothed against the table. She wraps her legs around me to meet my hips, both of us grunting and scraping and desperate for more, always more. Lips and tongues and fingers. It's me surrounded by Felicity. Buried in her sweetness, in her warmth.

Knowing I'm where I belong.


	6. Rubber and Glue - Part Two

_A/N: Felicity's take on their first lover's quarrel. Picks up after the previous chapter._

* * *

Rubber and Glue – Part Two

I wake up swaddled in warmed leather and soft skin over hard muscles. We're both smashed onto the sofa in the lair, my head pillowed on Oliver's arm, my bare back spooned tightly against his chest. I can tell by his deep, even breaths that he's still asleep, his exhales gently tickling my neck.

Oliver had raised his eyebrows the first time he sunk into the dark green leather cushions. "I like all the upgrades," he'd said, casually nodding his head around the newly remodeled lair like he hadn't left us for months. If I hadn't had something to do, I would've gone batshit crazy, and I was tired of working in the damp chill of the basement. "But this doesn't seem mission-related." He'd teased me, even as he stretched his shoulders and settled his head more comfortably against the leather that was almost the exact same shade as his hood.

"What are we, heathens? It can't all be hard and pointy, Oliver," I'd teased back instead of telling him all the things I wanted to say. I didn't tell him how much I'd missed him. How worried I'd been. How I sometimes slept here because it made me feel closer to him even though I didn't know where he was.

"The edges are what get the job done."

"True," I'd agreed. "But people can fall off the edges. It's good to have a soft place to land."

His eyes had blazed at me when I said that before he closed them and kicked his feet up. We never mentioned the sofa again, but thank goodness for my foresight, not that I ever envisioned sharing the couch overnight with Oliver. But you'd think he'd stop second-guessing me all the time because frankly, I'm not usually wrong.

I like to think it's not arrogant if it's true and I don't throw it in his face. Much.

As if sensing that I'm awake and plotting a way to slip out of his embrace without waking him up, Oliver tightens his grip around me. I give up my plans to use the restroom, at least for the time being, and idly trace the downy blond hair on his arm.

Digg said he suspected Oliver wasn't sleeping while I was in Central City.

Oh, Oliver.

Last night, I was not planning on make-up sex, let alone making up all over the lair. Poor Digg. We really need to come up with some kind of signal because what if he'd decided to come back and walked in on us? But after Oliver accused me of thinking of Barry while he was out, as if I would intentionally send him at dangerously high speed on his motorcycle into a bus, I couldn't look at him. I've learned the hard way that me angry makes for unpleasant revelations. And as mad as I was, I couldn't hurt Oliver. So I left instead. And despite wanting to believe differently, the only conclusion I came up with, no matter how many different ways I thought it through, was that I shouldn't be with Oliver.

I'd still work with him, of course. But I decided I can't be with a man, I don't care how incredibly good looking or how deliciously he says my name or how much I love him, who doesn't trust me.

I decided I didn't want hot sex with Oliver Queen. I mean, of course I want hot sex with Oliver. But I want more than that. I want all of him, as much as he can give me and then just a little bit more. And as hard as it was, I calmly walked back into the lair ready to call... whatever it is we are to each other... off as a bad experiment.

Only I walked into him beating himself up, which just pissed me off all over again. I mean, fuck it. Fuck him! Fuck Oliver Queen, dangling upside down like a bat.

I don't usually curse, but seeing him like that, sweaty and flexing and obviously overexerted and stupidly stubborn just made me want to scream. And it wasn't fair that he was punishing himself so thoroughly when I wanted to have my say and be righteously mad and do my own version of beating him up. I mean, first he is just insulting and cruel, and then he takes away any satisfaction I might get from telling him what a jackass he is.

And then the fucker ignored me like a petulant child. He was ready to drop to the floor, and I know he needed to hydrate and stretch before he cramped up, but he stood there with his back to me, all clenched jaw and silently brooding.

Stupid clenched jaw.

But then he said my name like he does. Like an acolyte at prayer. Like a man wishing for water in the middle of the desert. He says my name, just that one word, and it brims with so many different meanings. He begged. Good God, Oliver Queen begged.

I don't imagine him ever doing that. Before, I assume he was the one being begged to, as he dismissed the fawning people around him like flicking away gnats from a picnic. And now, it's just not in his tenacious nature to admit weaknesses, to ask for anything.

He begged.

I'm not too proud to deny when I'm wrong. And the fact is, it's not always going to be bubble baths and Christmas-tree sex. If we're going to work, not just in a professional or vigilante sense, we're sometimes going to fight. And in a split second, I went from resolved to trying to pretend like the past weeks never happened to kissing him like a possessed woman.

I will admit, I kissed with verve. With more than a little desperation. I extracted my pound of flesh because I needed him to know how hard it is to see him risk his life every night. How hurtful it was to be accused of being careless with him. How impossible it was to decide that the best course of action was to give up.

"Mmmm," he mumbles as he nuzzles into my hair. "Good morning." He shifts behind me, his ridiculously hard parts rubbing against me. Even though I'm a little bit sore from last night, it still feels good. "It is morning, isn't it?"

"I think so," I say. "Someone, even in his sleep, was reluctant to let me go."

"Never," he vows, squeezing me against him so tightly it's difficult to breathe.

"Oliver," I gasp.

"No," he teases, even as he loosens his grip. "I have it on good authority that you're always going to be with me."

"Sometimes a girl has to pee."

"Nope." He shakes his head and nibbles my ear. "We're never getting up off this couch."

"Watch it with the demands, mister. Like I told you last night, I'm still mad at you."

"But I apologized," he protests, moving lower to lick and kiss the sensitive skin behind my ear.

"You did. And I know that was a big step for you, and I appreciate it. But that doesn't take it back. You can't expect some sex to make it all go away."

"It was more than just some sex," he argues. "There was a shower involved. And many, many orgasms. More than you said you were capable of having."

"Well." I clear my throat. "Yes. I admit that I underestimated that. But still."

"We're okay?" he asks, fear in his voice. "Aren't we?"

"Of course we are, Oliver," I assure him. "Sometimes people fight."

"I used to just..." his voice trails off.

"Leave before you cared enough to fight?" I whisper.

"With all my gorgeous, damaged women?" He nods. "Something like that."

"I'm sorry I said that. It wasn't fair."

"It's the truth," he quietly admits.

"As much as I appreciate all these revelations," I say. "And I will gladly continue the conversation, I really would like to use to restroom. All those orgasms, Oliver. There are consequences to you being such a stud."

He shakes his head and teases the stud in my ear with his tongue. At that moment, his stomach lets out a rumble so loud I burst into laughter.

"We're staying on the sofa forever, risking me getting a bladder infection, but something tells me we'll make an exception for breakfast?" I ask.

"Maybe Digg will deliver."

"Oh, I dare you," I say with a laugh. "I dare you to call him and ask him to bring you breakfast."

Before he can stop me, I leap from the couch in a single swift movement, pulling the blanket with me and run for my tablet on the table. I'm unlocking the screen to pull up Digg's contact when Oliver grabs me from behind and tries to pull the tablet from my hand.

"Oliver!" I squeal, squirming to get away from him. In the end, he's left holding only the blanket and I run across the lair in my bare feet, the tablet clutched in my hand.

"Felicity," he growls as he stalks me.

"Digg," I loudly pretend to recite, my fingers moving much faster than my mouth. "Oliver is famished from all the make-up sex. Please bring breakfast to the lair immediately Include plenty of protein." I hold my finger poised over the send. "Should I?" I tease. "Should I make you face the wrath of John Diggle as he avenges my pillaged virtue?"

Oliver calls my bluff, shrugging and standing naked before me. "If you want Digg to join us for breakfast."

"You're distracting me. It's not fair to use your body against me."

"When it comes to you, Felicity," he says, his voice thick with emotion and suddenly serious. "I am a man without shame or dignity."

"Oh, Oliver." I sigh and turn the tablet so he can see what I wrote.

"Don't worry," he reads aloud. "We worked it out, so don't be mad at him on my behalf. We're going to need a few extra minutes this morning. I'll give you a shout when we're on our way to the office." He tosses the tablet to the table, making me wince when it lands with a thud.

"You're so jealous," I gently scold.

He gathers me into his arms and runs his hands over all the goosebumps. "You're freezing," he says as he walks us back to the dropped blanket and wraps it around both of us.

"You're poking me."

He shrugs and only holds me tighter. "I spend so much time controlling myself," he says. "Denying myself what I want. I'd rather not at this moment, if that's okay with you."

"I can live with that."


	7. One-Eyed King

_A/N: Expanded Oliver POV continuing from "Blind Spot" (2.11). This is where slightly AU ff gets tricky because other than the fact that they're together-together (and the events that occur in previous chapters of this fic), everything else is going to be pretty much how it plays out in canon-land. Complicated, I know. Yet here we are. My thanks to DuchessEmma for a lovely chat about lips and kisses. I hope you enjoy._

* * *

One-Eyed King

"Felicity!" I yell as I race across the rooftops, leaping from one to the next. "Felicity!"

There's no answer in my earpiece, only the sound of my own heaving breath and the thudding of my heart. But still I run, blind without her to guide me, knowing I have to hurry or it will be too late. It'll be all my fault.

"Talk to me!" I plead, but still she doesn't answer. "Felicity!"

I realize too late I won't be able to make the jump to the next roof. I skid to a halting stop, my toes struggling to find traction on the slippery surface. I'm half over the edge, frantically windmilling my arms because there's nothing to stop me from plummeting twelve stories to the pavement.

I fight against my forward momentum and propel myself back, landing awkwardly and painfully on my side on the roof. The back of my hand is bleeding when I crawl towards the edge of the roof and try to find my bearings.

Where am I?

The glittering lights of the distant downtown suddenly aren't Starling City. Like a fading mirage, I watch as they warp and morph and shimmer, revealing themselves to be far-away stars in the cold night sky.

"Felicity?"

I reach for my earpiece with my injured hand, only I don't have an earpiece anymore. I'm not wearing my green leather and mask, and I'm not on a rooftop in Starling City. I'm cold and shivering and hiding from Slade in a tall tree on Lian Yu, desperately clutching Shado's bow and my last arrow.

"Felicity," I beg, not able to keep the panic from my voice.

She has to be real. I couldn't have made her up. I left this place. I am not here. She is waiting for me, and I have to protect her. She's counting on me.

She loves me.

"Felicity," I say again. "Please, Felicity. I don't want to kill him. I just want to come home."

"You'll never go home, kid."

Slade's gruff voice comes from nowhere and everywhere. My savior, my teacher, my friend. The man who became my enemy. His voice, filled as always with rough affection and mild contempt, sends shivers of panic down my spine because if he finds her, he will hurt her. He will hurt her because he knows that's the only way he can hurt me. And that's all he wants: for me to suffer.

"You can't touch her!" I shout into the trees.

"What makes you think you can?" he asks. "You don't deserve her, and you can't stop me. But I won't have to hurt her: she'll come to me freely. She'll see that you truly are nothing."

I wake with a start, covered in sweat and fighting with the twisted sheets. Slade's voice still ringing in my ears, I blindly reach for Felicity, only to discover her side of the bed is empty. Frantic, I'm on my feet and running through the small apartment.

This can't be happening.

She has to be okay.

Jesus. God. Felicity.

"Oliver?" she says.

I throw myself across the living room. She's curled on the sofa, her legs tucked underneath her. She's wearing one of my button-down shirts, sitting alone in the dark. I ghost my fingers over her hair and her face and her hands and her arms.

"Oliver?" she says again. She sets aside her tablet, and I allow her to settle my head into her lap. Her fingers are soft and gentle as she strokes my hair. "What happened?"

"I woke up, and you were gone."

Saying it out loud like that sounds ridiculous, but she doesn't laugh or mock me. She rubs soothing circles on my back before pulling the afghan, her favorite soft blue one I love so much, over my bare shoulders.

"I didn't mean to scare you. I just couldn't sleep, and I didn't want my tossing and turning to keep you up, so I came out here." She continues her gentle ministrations, her fingers tracing my ear, the line of my jaw, the outline of my lips. "You're shaking."

I don't answer, just nuzzle my head against her silken thigh and breathe in the smell of her skin. I don't realize I've dug my fingers into her until I feel her hands on mine. She lightly taps my hands, and I immediately loosen my grip, afraid I've already left bruises.

"What happened?" she quietly asks again.

Here, surrounded by her warmth, my dream feels childish. I left the island. Slade is dead. He can't hurt her or anyone else. It was just a dream.

A terrible dream.

She doesn't press when I don't reply, simply continues touching me, as if she understands how much I need that right now. Without her anchoring me, I would be lost, adrift in my memories and drowning in my fears. Without her, Slade would be right: I'd be trapped on that island forever, unable to truly come home.

"I've been thinking about the Lances," she quietly admits. She waits to see if I'll react, and when I don't, she continues. "Poor Detective Lance. I can't imagine what he must be going through. He's a good guy. He really is. And this must just be killing him, to see his own failings in the daughter he loves so much. He must hate himself right now."

"I hadn't thought about that," I whisper to her thigh.

"He let you drive her home," she reminds me. She traces my lips with a single finger. "That didn't strike you as the act of a desperate man?"

"He and I have been getting along better."

For the first time, Felicity laughs, but it's quiet. More bemused than anything, and maybe just a little bit sad.

"Oh Oliver. It's easy to forget sometimes how clueless you are." She affectionately pats my cheek before scraping her fingers against my scruff. "Detective Lance and the Arrow have been getting along."

"Oh."

She pulls me into an awkward embrace and leans down to whisper in my ear, her loose hair tickling my face.

"Don't take it personally," she says. The tip of her tongue lightly dips into my ear. "Detective Lance and Oliver Queen don't have a lot of reasons to chat, you know? He spends considerably more time with the Arrow. And yes, he trusts and respects and depends on you. I'd go so far as to say he likes you, even."

"You think?" I ask in a small voice.

I can feel the movement when she nods. "Absolutely. And I'm not in the business of telling you what you want to hear on command. You have other sycophants for that. So you know I'm telling you the truth." Once again, she traces the outline of my jaw. "How does she not see it?" she whispers.

"She who?"

"Laurel. How does she not recognize you?"

"I wear a mask and a hood for a reason, Felicity."

"Yes, but who else in Starling City has a jaw like this? Or lips like these?" She traces my lips. "How did she not spend those five years remembering what it's like to kiss you?"

I sigh and roll over so I'm looking up at her. Her hair spills around her shoulders and reflects the light coming in from the street. I raise my hand and cup her cheek, smiling when she closes her eyes and leans into my touch.

"She spent those five years really mad at me for cheating on her and killing Sarah," I say with a sigh. She was kissing Tommy, too. For all I know, Laurel didn't miss me at all. "And I didn't kiss her the way I kiss you." She opens her eyes, and I hope, even in the dark, she can see that I'm telling the truth. "I was different when I was with her. I wasn't." My voice trails off because I don't know how to explain it exactly. "I wasn't the person I am now. I didn't cherish her the way I do you."

"So you didn't kiss her like you needed to feel her lips against yours more than you needed to breathe?"

I smile and shake my head. "Nope. Those are only your kisses." I sit up and pull a squealing Felicity onto my lap, wrapping the afghan around us both.

"Now I really feel sorry for her," she says after we both get comfortable. "She doesn't even know what she's missing," Felicity whispers. "She has no idea how alone she is or what she's lost." I open my mouth to respond, but Felicity presses her fingers against my lips and shakes her head. "You know what? Let's not talk about Laurel anymore."

"Works for me," I agree, feeling relieved.

The truth is, I can't change my past, but I wish sometimes that I could. Not just the island and everything I went through to get home, but also how selfish I used to be. How intent I was on my own immediate gratification and pleasure. I've kissed too many people I don't care about. I kissed them poorly, and without consideration.

I should have saved all my kisses for Felicity.

"Are you going to tell me?" she asks now that we're face to face.

I shake my head, but even as I do, I hear myself whisper, as if I can't deny her anything, even the things I don't want her to see or know, "I was on the island."

She nods.

"First I was here, on a mission. Only you weren't there. I was running blind without your voice in my ear, and I almost fell. But then I was back on the island."

"I'll always be here," she promises. "But that's not what had you running in here like the bed was on fire."

"He always called me kid," I quietly say. I close my eyes and lean my head back. "It was condescending at first, because he was so badass and I was." I shake my head at the boy I used to be, the boy Slade used to get so frustrated with and nearly killed because he was so inept at absolutely everything. "Well, I was me."

"But then you grew up," Felicity adds.

I nod. "Yeah. Only he still called me kid. But over time, it was." I sigh. "It was the same word, and he said it the same way. He had a great voice, really. But it was different."

"Because you weren't a kid anymore," she says.

I pull her into my chest and settle her head under my chin because Felicity is awake in the middle of the night talking to a lunatic because I haven't even told her Slade's name. I probably never will.

"He recognized how much you'd changed," she continues, her breath warm and comforting on my neck. "And he still called you kid to remind you how far you'd come. It became a sign of his respect."

I nod, and Felicity nods back, understanding that I'm not going to say anymore. She knows when to stop, and she knows better than to ask what happened to him, or why someone I cared about left me running into her arms. I have no doubt that eventually Felicity will know all my secrets, but she seems content to wait until I decide to tell her.

"What were you working on?" I ask as I run my hands under her shirt.

"The security guard," she says.

"From the archive?" She nods. "What are you looking for?"

"Breadcrumbs."

"Maybe there isn't a trail to follow. Maybe he just got lucky."

Felicity shrugs. "Maybe. But in my experience, there's no such thing as that much luck." She leans back and looks at me, her gaze intent and serious. "We are running blind, Oliver, and I don't like it."

"Nah," I soothe, pulling her back into my arms. I trail teasing kisses along her neck.

"I'm serious," she protests, squirming against my lips.

"Let's be serious in the morning," I suggest. "I think we should distract ourselves from all the seriousness as often as possible."

I kiss her, my tongue gently asking her lips to welcome me home. She sighs with contentment and tugs on my hair.

"Now you're just playing dirty," she accuses. "You're appealing to my baser nature."

"Well, I'm not opposed to cheating when it suits my purposes. And I happen to love your baser nature. Besides, you know what they say about the world of blind men?"

She reaches between us and strokes me before giving me a firm squeeze. While I gasp for breath, she says, "The one-eyed man is king?" She kisses me before laughing. "Gross, Oliver."

Before I can stop it, Felicity laughing on my lap is replaced with an image of Slade, my last arrow sunk deep into his eye. The other is open, gazing at nothing because he'd never look at anything, not ever again. I left him a one-eyed king of nothing.

I cling tightly to Felicity and bury my face in her face.

"Hey," she says. "Where'd you go? Come home to me."

I kiss her instead of answering, both eyes wide open so all I can see is her.


	8. The Processing Process

_A/N: Out of order and a little late this week 'cause of real-life reasons, but I hope you enjoy this expanded Felicity POV from "Tremors" (2.12)._

* * *

The Processing Process

"Felicity." He huffs impatiently and shifts his weight. "This isn't working, and there are too many other things..."

"Shh," I interrupt as I press my fingers against his pouting lips. "Relax, Oliver. Give it a chance. You have to respect the process."

"I thought I was supposed to be processing."

"You are," I agree. "This is an excellent processing process." I gesture encouragingly to the pint in his hand. "Go on."

"I think I like my way better."

"You work out plenty. Let's just try this."

He sighs and stabs the ice cream with a ferocity that would kill it if it weren't already dead and grudgingly puts the spoonful into his mouth. He doesn't flinch when it comes to assassins or hired thugs or earthquake machines, but he's acting like Ben & Jerry will surely kill him.

"Roy," he begins to say around the mint chocolate cookie in his mouth.

"Is in good hands with Digg." He sulks and shifts his weight again before stabbing another too-large spoonful. "What?" I ask. "You don't think Roy is in good hands?"

"No."

"No?" I can't keep the surprised incredulity out of my voice.

"I mean, yes I trust Diggle," Oliver clarifies. "Of course Roy is in good hands. It just isn't Digg's responsibility. It's mine. And I should be there instead of here."

"I think you should choose your next words carefully, Mr. Queen," I warningly tease so I don't think about what Roy could do to Digg if he loses his temper. Digg is an impressive man and a excellent fighter, but even the Arrow couldn't deal with Roy. "No, you're not imparting wisdom and showing off your muscles and mad-skills to an adoring kid. But you are naked in bed with me with a pint of Ben & Jerry's finest. Is that really so bad?"

He finally looks at me and smiles. "Are you saying you don't adore it when I show off my muscles and mad-skills, Ms. Smoak?"

"Well," I begin, feeling the blush flame my cheeks even though there's nothing to be embarrassed about when it comes to appreciating Oliver's many muscles and skills. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe. Although oh my muscles! What am I going to do with three emotionally stunted, ridiculously well-muscled men hanging around the lair?" I groan and take the spoon from Oliver, shoveling more Ben & Jerry into my mouth. Even my comfort food is dominated by men. I really need to get some girl-friends. "I should think about setting up a satellite office."

"Is it really that bad?" Oliver asks.

"Sometimes," I admit. "You and Digg can be."

I shrug, thinking of all the stony silences and the macho displays of aggression and how difficult it is for either one of them to admit when they're wrong or hurt or scared. I decide now is not the best time to mention that Laurel obviously thinks what I do ranks along the same lines as a waitress. Of course, she doesn't know about our mission, but still. I've been feeling really badly for her, and she had to go and insult me. Oliver wouldn't understand why that was so upsetting. He'd just bristle in my defense and blow if off.

"Sometimes you can be a little much," I say. "Adding Roy to the mix should be." My voice trails off as I search for the right word. "Interesting."

"Interesting good?" he tentatively asks.

"Don't worry, Oliver," I assure him. "Roy needs you, and you're worth it."

Oliver carefully spoons just the right amount and holds the ice cream up to my mouth. I dutifully open for him and set about sucking the ice cream away from the cookie pieces. I gesture to my mouth so he knows he can keep talking if he wants, but I'm not going to rush eating mint chocolate cookie ice cream. He nods and moves the spoon around in the pint.

"I spent that first year dreaming, literally dreaming, about all the things I missed," he quietly says, staring intently at the ice cream. "Ice cream and sizzling ribeyes and Raisa's macaroni and cheese. You don't realize how much work it is to eat until suddenly there isn't a refrigerator."

The truth is, I've stopped trying to make sense of Oliver's five years on the island. Trying to figure out how exactly that all worked is a logic train that never gets very far. For every question that occurs to me, like how did he and Shado have sex, which I assume they did, without condoms, I only get sidetracked by even more questions and never any reasonable answers. Like what happened when Shado, who was also the only girl, was... girly? Highly doubtful, but maybe Japanese soldiers carried condoms that may or may not have remained effective after all those decades in a box, but there's no way they had a case of tampons lying around in the military supplies. And that sort of line of thinking pales in comparison to thoughts about clean water.

"We had some cases of c-rations." He glances at me and gives a rueful grin. "In case you're wondering, WWII-era Japanese soldiers didn't eat the best stuff." He watches while I chew the cookies and after I shallow, he holds up the spoon again. Once more, I open my mouth and let him feed me like I'm a baby bird. "But we tried not to eat the rations unless we really had to," he continues. "As terrible as they were, we didn't know how long they would have to last. God, I can remember staring at the boxes, mentally counting them, hating them and desperately needing them at the same time." He shakes his head again, as if to get rid of the image of those boxes in the fuselage. "So after that first year, I sort of forgot? Not forgot, because how do you forget about things like hot showers and toothbrushes and clean towels and shoes that actually fit and falling asleep in a warm bed with a full stomach and not worrying about breakfast? But I realized I couldn't keep thinking about all the things I missed because it would make me crazy, and if I ever did get off that island, I wanted to come home and not be insane. So I just put all those things, so many things, away in my mind. I had to. When Digg first took me to Big Belly Burger and ordered a milkshake, I had to really think to remember what the hell it was."

He spoons another too-big bite into his mouth.

"So it's working, I guess?" He gestures to the pint. "You wanted me to process my traumatic past?"

"I think your list of things to process is long and distinguished," I quietly admit.

Why didn't Moira send him to a shrink when he came home? Not that Oliver would've gone or been a cooperative patient, but someone should have realized he needed to talk about what happened to him.

I'd actually brought him home because I thought he'd need to process the idea that he's brought Roy onto the team. His past effort at mentoring didn't turn out all that well. And by 'not that well' I mean Helena was an epic failure. And the fact remains that we live in a world populated with super-humans. Not many of them, thank goodness. But Roy is one. And Thea's in love with him. It took Oliver five traumatic years far from the comforts of home to learn how to become the Arrow. How long will it take Roy, and how much danger is Thea in while he's leaning?

But Oliver needing to talk about the island makes sense, since this Slade guy is the only other person Oliver's known to survive the Mirakuru serum and Oliver obviously feels really guilty for whatever horror befell him.

"Maybe you should think about buying stock in Ben & Jerry," I gently suggest. "Because we are definitely going to need more ice cream."

"This is really good." He gestures to the half-eaten pint. "I don't think I ever had this flavor before. The cookies are a nice touch."

"Ben & Jerry are geniuses," I agree. "The cookies, little crunchy bits mixed in with the creamy mintiness, are so much better than chocolate chips for the processing process. See." I take the spoon from his hand and put a bite into his mouth. "Instead of gulping down the entire thing like a savage."

"But I am a savage," he teases. I roll my eyes and spoon another bite into his mouth.

"You suck away the ice cream first."

I take a bite too and set about working it around my mouth, the minty ice cream melting deliciously as my tongue carefully separates the cookie pieces. While I eat, I can't help but admire his jaw as he does what I ask, the strong line of it subtly moving back and forth. I lean forward and give it a taste, just the tiniest brush of my tongue against his soft stubble.

"Why did we do that?" he asks around the glob of cookie left in his mouth.

"Because it's cool and soothing and calming, and we need that while we're processing. We're taking time to savor the easy parts because we're dealing with difficult things."

"What about this?" He sticks out his tongue to show me his unswallowed cookies.

"Now you can chew that," I say, gently poking him for being gross. "Because the fact remains that life is hard, and sometimes you just have to dig in, and despite your best intentions, you'll be left with little pieces stuck in your teeth."

"You've turned eating ice cream into a philosophy?"

"I take Ben & Jerry mint chocolate cookie very seriously."

I take the pint from his hand and straddle him, once more spooning a bite into his mouth. A drip escapes the spoon and lands on his chest, and I dip down to lick it clean. I pull his nipple into my mouth because I take Oliver's chest very seriously too. He leans forward to kiss me, his tongue cold and minty from the ice cream, his lips almost feverishly warm in contrast.

"Nuh-uh," I say, pulling away from him and righting the pint just before it spilled into the bed. "You almost made a mess."

"Oh, I intend to make a mess," he says. "But let's finish the ice cream first."


End file.
